


My Own Desert Places

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-04
Updated: 2006-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Archer, who can be quite dim sometimes, fights his attraction towards Tucker. Missing scenes and postep, 1.24 "Desert Crossing."  (06/07/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers, 1.01-1.02 "Broken Bow," 1.08 "Breaking The Ice," 1.24 "Desert Crossing."  
  
I have an idea that Robert Frost was Henry Archer's favourite poet. He's also one of mine. Quotes are from 'On Looking Up By Chance at the Constellations' and 'Desert Places'. The quote about Christ in the desert is from 'Sea Room: An Island Life', by Adam Nicolson, and thoughts of the Hebrides in that book are for Mareel.  
  
Beta reader(s): Mareel and Kylie, both incredibly generous to a new writer. Particular thanks to Mareel for the Colin Archer connection and all that's followed. And Kylieâ€”what can I say that's even adequate? Kylie led me to the Dark Side.  


* * *

### Enterprise

At this rate, morning was going to come before he'd even begun to feel drowsy. Jonathan Archer cursed that last cup of coffee he'd had at dinner. Maybe he'd have to switch to decaf for a while. He hated the stuff.

The usual insomnia cures had failed. Hoshi's elementary Klingon language primer, T'Pol's account of Vulcan meditation techniques, and even Malcolm Reed's analysis of phase pistol technology had left him alert and—Archer searched for the right word—unsettled.

He stretched out, tightening then relaxing each muscle group in turn. He wasn't just physically unsettled—he was mentally on edge. He glanced over at Porthos. Asleep. He'd already inflicted an extra late-night walk on the dog. He wasn't going to rouse him again. Anyway, that wasn't going to shift this strange unease.

Perhaps just—perhaps just some company that didn't give a damn if he was a Starfleet captain. Just someone warm and soft and responsive in his bed. Archer considered the idea. Near enough, he concluded. It would have to do. Just run with it for a bit. See where it went. Warm and responsive was one hell of a problem on _Enterprise_. He was aware of relationships forming, but they were in his peripheral vision. Even the two female crew he had most contact with were way off-limits. Hoshi—dammit—he felt protective towards her, and in awe of her linguistic flair, but...she was too feminine. Was that possible? He'd never thought of it that way before, but that was the problem with Hoshi. He saw it now—too...delicate. She looked as if she would fall apart if he gave her more than the gentlest of kisses. And the gentlest of kisses wasn't his style. So she was out of the picture. Period.

As for T'Pol—he allowed himself a wry smile. That would be something. Jonathan Archer overcomes his distrust of Vulcans in a big way. No, T'Pol didn't do it for him, though he had noticed Malcolm Reed's puppy-dog gaze following her from time to time. Well, well. Must be a lot of mixed control dynamics going on inside our straight-laced Brit. But for Archer, even when she jutted out those fearsome breasts at him in the way anyone else would stick out their chin, he felt nothing, except perhaps annoyance shot through with amusement. On a good day.

Just as well he hadn't gone through the decon experience with her like Tucker had. He could hear his Chief Engineer's incredulous tones. "There I am, sta nding there yellin' at her, and she's tormenting me. I thought she'd report me for 'conduct unbecoming' the state my shorts were in."

They'd laughed about it, like the buddies they were, after the incident. They'd been off duty, working out in the gym and relaxing afterwards with a cold drink. Archer could remember exactly what Tucker had looked like that evening. His blond hair had been dark from the shower, his wicked grin the most alive thing in the whole universe. Funny how these things stuck in the mind.

Hell, to think he'd nearly lost him twice. That time he'd tried to take off his EVA suit helmet, on a planet with no atmosphere. And their desert training. Archer felt a stab of the desperation that had seized him as they stumbled across endless sand dunes, Tucker growing more disorientated by the minute. The sun drilling into them. The blast of heat striking up from the sand. Tucker leaning into him for support. The scent of Tucker's sweat sharp in his nostrils.

Archer shifted uneasily in bed. How had he gotten there from the warm and responsive idea? Tucker and deserts didn't mix, that was for sure. That last day of their desert training had been an ordeal for Tucker. The rest of the time had been okay. In fact, Archer put down those two weeks in Australia as one of the best times of his life. He wasn't quite sure why—it all just came together to form something that was pretty special: doing serious mission training at last, the promise of getting out there on the horizon, a tight-knit group of Starfleet crew, being with his best friend for so long. All the components of it added up to something more than normal experience.

Archer snapped his mind back to the present. Where the hell was warm and responsive? That stuff just wasn't part of his life—certainly wasn't part of a Starfleet captain's life.

How long was it since Miranda had broken up with him? Archer considered. He couldn't even remember her very clearly now, couldn't call up an image of her body. He'd thought things were okay, that the sex was okay. But then she'd just called him one night in Australia—so that's where this desert stuff was coming from—and said it was finished. He and Tucker were on a couple of days' R & R after the end of their desert training. They'd gone out for a few beers after Miranda called. Archer half suspected Tucker intended to fix him up with some leggy Australian blonde, someone who could help him drown his sorrows in more ways than one.

They'd sat outside in the warm evening. The waterfront breeze caressed his skin. Archer had been aware of his body, of the pleasure of the occasion. He'd felt good, physically. Strange, that he hadn't felt anything much about Miranda. If he was honest, he'd felt the beginning of a treacherous sense of freedom. Tucker had been displaying obvious interest in a group of sun-kissed, out-on-the-town women at the next table. Probably considering a swift, Southern charm offensive on that target. Archer had thought he might join him. Freedom might just have its compensations.

Suddenly everything about that evening was coming back to him clearly, unreeling in front of him, inexorably, from a memory he didn't know he had: Tucker lifting his glass of beer to take a long pull. The glass catching the light from the lanterns strung around the place. Tucker bringing the glass back down to the table, so close to Archer's glass that the hairs on his forearm brushed against Archer's arm. Tucker saying something, but he couldn't hear the words. Feeling the pulse beginning to beat in his ears. Feeling that he should move his arm, take a drink of his own beer, break the momentum of whatever was happening. Nothing was happening. Everything was happening.

His heart thudded in his chest. Suddenly he was aware of existing in two dimensions. In one, he could feel the cold glass of beer in his hand, hear the background hum of the bar. In the other, the world became utterly strange, unknown. All he had to do was make one tiny movement, and he would plummet into that strangeness with no way back. Exhilaration and fear shot through him.

Fear won. He was frozen. And then Tucker lifted his glass to take another drink. The electric connection was lost, and the normal world closed dully around Archer again. Tucker hadn't noticed anything. Archer was sure of it. He hadn't even been looking at him.

Archer lay staring into the darkness of his cabin. He could still feel that fear—the whole universe shifting, everything the same, yet shockingly altered underneath.

Push it away. Think of something else. The first thing that comes to mind. T'Pol in decon—gel being slicked across her back, down her thighs, male hands, Tucker's hands slipping under the waistband of her panties, the skin wonderfully smooth. He could see Tucker's hands clearly—he must have watched him at work so often. That was why the image was so clear. And T'Pol—her nipples prominent under the thin fabric of her tank. All female, all desirable curves. Then her hands, skimming across Tucker's chest, teasing the hard nub of his nipples, down the flat plane of his stomach, that faint fuzz of hair running down from his navel. Moving faster, smoothing across his shoulders, running in turn under the band of his shorts, lingering over the top of his buttocks, the cleft at the top of his bum cheeks. A hard, flat voice commanding, "Turn around." Tucker obeying, reluctantly, but with a backward look over his shoulder that showed something else. He was enjoying obeying the order against his will. Was that when he'd started to get hard? Massaging his earlobes, hearing his sudden sharp exhalation.

The sound sent a stab of pleasure through Archer. Tucker was always discreet in his relationships: Archer had never heard, let alone seen him making out. But that sound—it was Tucker barely controlling raw desire. Archer wanted to hear that again. Desperately. T'Pol had faded from his mental image. He didn't need her any more. The momentum was all his to control. He was going to bring Tucker to that pitch of desire again. Nothing else mattered-only taking Tucker right to the edge.

Ordering Tucker to turn around again, brushing a hand across the bulge in his shorts, tormenting him. Keeping eye contact with him, watching him fighting for control. Freeing him from the restriction of his shorts. Ordering him not to touch himself. Caressing his balls, the insides of his thighs. Connecting with the desperation in his gaze—and the complicity.

At last brushing a hand across his erection. Feeling him shudder, gasp, "You son of a bitch!", his hand moving harder and faster on Tucker's cock, just as his own masturbating hand was doing on his own hard dick. Another order, and Tucker was leaning forward against the table holding the decon gel. Legs braced apart, just as Archer had told him. Tracing a finger down his crack, slick with gel. Pushing the tip of his cock insistently against Tucker's asshole. Shocking pleasure as Tucker opened up to him, the exquisite sensation of tightness as he pushed slowly in.

No time to reach into his bedside drawer for the tube of lubricant. Archer sucked hard on the index finger of his left hand, then brought it dripping saliva down between his legs. He teased the puckered rim of his asshole with light circling strokes. In his mind, Tucker groaned and shifted his legs further apart to give him better access. He pushed one finger in to his own asshole, then another. Immediately Archer's pleasure was fuller, deeper, sharper than he had ever experienced. He was hurled into orgasm. His asshole spasmed against his finger. His own voice yelled, "No!"

The trail of come was sticky and cold on his chest. Archer stared into the dark, heart thudding, realisation forming inexorably. That was "no," as in "yes."

### A Desert Place

Tucker was swaying on his feet now. Archer caught his arm.

"Trip, you gotta drink."

"No, just walk. I'm okay...just walk some more."

Archer complied. Anything to put a few more steps towards getting out of this desert hell. He hitched Tucker's arm over his shoulders, taking his weight. Tucker's overheated body burned against him.

"We're not going to get out!" The panic rose in Tucker's voice.

"Sure we are. We just have to keep going, slowly. But we'll get out. We can contact the support team if we really have to. But you want to pass this training—you know we've got to. Trust me."

They stumbled on in silence. Archer knew he had to make Tucker drink, and he waited until the pace slowed even more before bringing them to a halt. He turned round to face Tucker, bracing him with one hand against his shoulder while the other snagged his water bottle free of its strap. He was breathing hard.

"Drink. That's an order." For a second he thought Tucker was going to defy him. He caught a flash of something he couldn't define in Tucker's eyes. Then Tucker nodded and jerked his head towards the water bottle.

"Help me."

Archer raised the bottle to Tucker's mouth. As he did so his fingers rasped against the stubble on Trip's chin. It felt shockingly intimate. He had to say something to cover the moment.

"Just keep looking forward to a wash and a shave." Archer forced a laugh. "We must look a couple of wrecks."

Tucker's eyes were half closed. Again Archer couldn't read them.

"Nah, you look good to me."

"Hey, this is no time for bolstering my ego! There isn't a woman within 50 metres."

Tucker's eyes were closed now.

"Real good," he murmured.

A thrill of something that had to be fear ran through Archer. Tucker was delirious—he had to be hallucinating about one of his current flames. He was deteriorating, and that was why the fear was prickling its way up Archer's spine.

Archer said nothing, but started forward again. Tucker leaned even more heavily into him, and Archer drew him in, tightening his grip around Tucker's waist. Tucker groaned, his head lolling now. Archer shifted slightly so that Tucker's head rested on his shoulder. He looked down. Through the opening of Tucker's shirt he could see his chest labouring in short, dry gasps. The hollow of Tucker's collarbone glistened with sweat. At least he was still sweating. Archer knew that it was when sweating stopped that heatstroke was at the critical stage. The pulse beat rapidly in Tucker's neck. Archer halted for a moment, transfixed. He suddenly wanted to lay a finger on that pulse, feel it beat against the pad, echoing the beat of his own heart. To feel that beat seemed the most important thing in the world.

The fear lanced through him, and Archer started them walking.

The sun was still high in the afternoon sky when the landscape began to change. A harder, stony stretch of ground spread before them. And perhaps just reachable, a rocky bluff which held the promise of some shade.

Tucker was semiconscious now. Archer wondered how he could keep walking in that state, but he did. He was probably still obeying orders.

Incredibly, the shade was there, now. They had covered the ground. Archer forced himself to recall the drill. Inspect the ground before lying down. Looked okay. Tucker's weight had numbed Archer's shoulders, and he felt no relief as he lowered Tucker onto the ground. Staggering, his own exhaustion and thirst screaming at him, he fumbled in his pack for the reserve water. Tucker needed water, but there was no way he could make him drink just yet. Instead Archer poured a careful, thin stream of water onto Tucker's head, plastering the sweat-darkened hair still further.

What next? Think, dammit. The words swam in front of his eyes. He could see the padd clearly, with the survival textbook on it, but the words escaped him. Then suddenly—"massage." That was it! "Massage the arms, legs and body."

Archer worked steadily, massaging firm muscle under sweat-soaked clothing. The rhythm became automatic. The whole of his existence was concentrated on the feel of Tucker's body under his hands.

At last, Tucker's eyes flickered open. Archer sat back on his knees. Stunned by weariness, he attempted a smile in response to Tucker's now lucid gaze.

"Welcome back."

Tucker moistened his cracked lips with his tongue. His voice was thick and heavy.

"Not sure it's good to be back."

Archer crumpled forward from his kneeling position to stretch out on his front beside Tucker. He had to lie down. And he had to lie on his front. Somehow, unaccountably, he was hard. Weird things the body did under extreme stress, Archer thought.

### Enterprise

There was a knife-edge on every perception. Archer moved in a world of heightened sensation. His body thrummed to a resonance he had never felt before. His nerve endings were on overdrive. Time was suddenly elastic, judged by whether or not Tucker was in the same room. He realised now that had always been the case. If Tucker was nearby, it felt as if everything was going well, even if it wasn't. He didn't know when in their friendship Tucker's presence had started to make him feel that everything around him was just that little bit more vital than usual. But that had been a peaceful, gently pleasurable feeling of well-being. Now he had crossed some sort of boundary, and he was cursed with knowledge.

Knowledge and pleasure—Archer felt that he was living on heights of imagined sensation. The pain was exquisite, because there was nothing he could do about it. No resolution, no way out. He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Tucker, and he couldn't have him. He was stricken with self-disgust and self-reproach. He could not do this. He was the captain. Nothing in the construction of his highly ordered world would allow this. Eaten up by desire and longing, Archer stumbled through the days.

The memories were relentless, detonating silently, puncturing the defences he'd erected without knowing it.

"What are you going to do—sit on the hull and pose for some postcards?"

Their prelaunch inspection, Tucker piloting the shuttlepod. He'd looked askance at Tucker, had struggled for words for what seemed like an eternity, and finally turned their attention back to the ship above them, except now the image he'd formed at an almost subliminal level was back before him. It had flashed before him in a nanosecond at Tucker's words, and he thought he'd killed it there and then, before he'd had time to acknowledge it. But it had survived and matured, and now it was inescapably complete, framed for him to consider in all its detail.

He was on a bed, half propped up on his right elbow, his right leg stretched out, the other bent up at the knee. He was naked, his cock erect, his left hand poised as if to grasp it. He was smiling into the eyes of the man holding the camera, laughing easily with him. Trip.

Recording answers to the questions sent from Earth by eager school kids.

Why the hell had he insisted that Tucker stay on the bridge? Tucker had wanted to leave. "You sure you want me here for this? I got a lot of work to do."

And he'd replied, "Stay, this is important." What had been more important, Archer wondered now—the questions or Tucker's presence just feet away from him?

As he'd made his way painfully through his answers, he'd been aware of how stiff and formal he was being, when he'd set out to be relaxed and friendly. Of the difficulty of chatting into thin air. Of Tucker looking at him.

And then that question: 'Is dating allowed on _Enterprise_?'

Why had he looked over at Tucker? Not just in his direction—at him. Eye contact. Probably because he'd share in his amusement. And he had—grinning wryly for a second before looking down at his console.

Archer didn't know how he could have done what he did next. It must have screamed out the obvious at everyone on the bridge. The words had formed in his head, in themselves safely appropriate for his audience back on Earth. But then he'd blown it.

"If two crew members—" He'd actually looked right over at Tucker, smiled at him, and continued—"decide they really like each other, there are a lot of places they can go to look at the stars."

Tucker was still smiling, but a tight, strained smile that Archer had never seen before, and he was still looking down.

Archer shut off the memories, forcing himself through duty rosters, security reviews, whatever came to hand, until there was nothing left. Off-duty in his quarters, he searched with rising panic for something to fill the vacuum, something completely unrelated to a starship. Duty rosters had Tucker's name on them. Security reviews mentioned Engineering. Even watching a water polo game was dangerous: every blond player looked as if he could be Tucker, torso sleek from the water, muscles bunching as he leapt for the ball.

Then, at last, a safe choice. A book of poetry: Robert Frost, his father's favourite. The New England poet, rooted to the land. Archer felt himself relax for the first time in days. Skimming through the book, it fell open at one of his favourites. He read,

"You'll wait a long time for anything much  
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud  
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.  
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,  
Nor strike out fire from each other, nor crash out loud."

Archer groaned. Shit, there was no escape from sensation. He was turning paranoid. Try another. Something even safer. Ah, that was it, 'Snow falling...'

His stomach clenched as he read the last verse:

"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces  
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.  
I have it in me so much nearer home  
To scare myself with my own desert places."

The book hit the end of the bed with a crash. Sweating, Archer turned to the computer, ransacking the database for something factual. No flights of fancy that he could misinterpret.

There it was—he'd turned here for solace before. This was safe enough—an account of an English guy's ownership of some Hebridean islands.

An hour later Archer sat staring unseeing at the screen. The words he'd just read burned in his mind:

"The Christian experience is centrally shaped by the experience of Christ in the desert, and by the idea that Satan and the flesh can be overcome by exposure to the dangers of a desert place."

He was going to beat this. Kill this fear. He would prove that there was nothing there. He would take Tucker on the away mission to the desert planet. Take up Zobrol's invitation.

Exorcise the demons. And the flesh.

### The Dangers Of A Desert Place

"If it's all the same to you, Cap'n, I'll sit this one out."

"It's not like you to pass up an away mission." Archer couldn't believe it. His plan was in tatters already. He'd come down to Engineering with his invitation, expecting Tucker's usual ready acceptance and he wasn't getting beyond first base. For a second he was back in high school, pursuing a girl for a date. He quashed that thought.

"I'm up to my ears in work." Tucker was on the run. Excuses about the impulse manifolds, the gravity plating on C deck. He glanced up at Archer.

"Desert, sir? The heat, the dry air? You know how it sucks the life out of me."

"What about the two weeks we spent in Australia? We had a great time."

"Survival training in the outback?" Tucker started up the ladder towards him and Archer felt a shock of anticipation that Tucker was coming up to talk properly with him.

Tucker was still talking as he hurried up the ladder and made for a control panel at the other end of the gantry. "Drinking recycled sweat and eating snake meat? That's your idea of a great time?"

Archer forced a laugh. He was losing this. "It's not going to be like that." He joined Tucker at the control panel. He had a feeling he was crowding him, standing too close, but he had always liked to watch Tucker work in Engineering. He was absolutely in control. There was something almost sensual about that. Archer supposed it was because knowledge was power and power was...He pushed his thoughts back to winning this argument.

"I get the feeling Zobrol's a man who likes to indulge his guests—he's promised to roll out the red carpet for us."

Tucker was on the move again, scooting back down another damned ladder. Archer's desperation grew. He didn't have any real arguments left. "It'll be more fun than purging impulse manifolds."

Tucker leaned his elbows on the platform in front of the warp core, his back to Archer.

Archer didn't know where it had come from, but it was his last chance:

"Suit yourself. I'll see if Malcolm's interested."

Tucker buried his head in his arms.

"But I was hoping you'd enjoy spending some time with your captain."

Archer started to walk away.

Tucker's voice behind him sent a jolt through his midsection.

"Promise me I won't have to eat any snake meat?"

### Enterprise

"No more deserts. You got me down to that desert planet under false pretences. So much for 'spending some time with your Captain'." Tucker shot a mock disgusted look at Archer. They'd both been released from sickbay an hour earlier, after treatment for sunburn, heatstroke, and plain exhaustion, and Tucker had declared that he needed a cold beer, right now.

"Man..." Tucker shook his head in denial, then raked his short blond forelock back from his forehead.

Archer followed the familiar movement. Too closely, he felt. He pretended stiff, formal displeasure.

"What do you mean, Commander? What false pretences? As far as I can remember you spent a great deal of time with your captain. And in close proximity too."

Tucker's eyes veiled suddenly. "Yeah, very close proximity."

The words hung in the air. Archer picked up his glass and put it down again. The silence stretched.

He attempted a wry grin. "My shoulder's still suffering from hauling your weight up and down sand dunes." He rubbed the muscles and winced.

"I'll make it up to you." Tucker was suddenly on his feet. Archer was forced to look up the length of his torso to read his expression. He felt stupidly but unmistakably as if he was giving Tucker the once-over.

"'By getting me another beer?" It was the only thing Archer could think of to say, but he felt as if he had started reading from the wrong script.

"That's the last thing you need. You older guys need to watch your waistline." Archer's laughter ended in something between a cough and a splutter as Tucker continued. "I'll give you a massage."

"Since when did my chief engineer become qualified in massage?" Archer's incredulity let him meet Tucker's eyes at last. He could read only mischievous amusement in them.

Tucker spread his hands in front of Archer. "No qualifications. Just my sensitive engineer's hands and," his tone became conspiratorial, "a few—ah—tuition sessions from Hoshi."

Archer relaxed muscles he didn't know had been tense. He felt relief—and then a stab of something like disappointment. Tucker and Hoshi were an item?

"I didn't know my comm officer doubled as a masseuse."

"Yeah, she's a talented lady."

Archer waited for more, but Tucker wasn't going there. He was playing this pretty tight. Archer thought he read something like smug satisfaction in Tucker's smile.

"So she's taught you enough for you to offer your services around?" He tried not to imagine Tucker's practice sessions with Hoshi.

"'Enough. Besides, I seem to remember you tryin' out your unqualified technique on me."

"Yeah, it worked, didn't it? Straight from the survival handbook—what I remembered of it."

"Well now you're going to feel the difference. Unlike yours, my technique has been honed in practice. Now, take off your uniform."

The prickling started up Archer's spine.

"Come again?"

"Your uniform. Take it off." Tucker was patient. "I can't get at your shoulder properly through your uniform."

"Didn't I tell you down there that I don't take orders from you?"

"You'll enjoy taking this one. I guarantee it."

Tucker smiled down at him. Archer couldn't meet his gaze. He focused lower. The pulse at his collarbone was just visible at the open neck of Tucker's uniform. Archer closed his eyes against the intensity of that memory, and reached to unzip his coverall.

It didn't feel as bad as he'd expected, once he was lying face down on his bed. Tucker had made him take off his T-shirt. As he lay waiting for Tucker to start, he forced himself to think that this was just normal. Completely normal. His eyes were closed. He didn't know why, and it suddenly bothered him. He could hear Tucker taking off his shoes.

Then he felt pressure on the mattress on either side of his knees and he realised with a jolt that Tucker was straddling his legs. He felt him shift slightly on the bed to get into position.

"Ready, Cap'n?" Tucker's tone was light.

The sheets muffled his affirmative. There was no way he was going to turn his head to look at Tucker. He could imagine the scene all too well already.

He'd tensed himself for the first touch of Tucker's hands, but again it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Tucker used firm, economical movements. Nothing overly light. The word "caressing" came into Archer's mind and he threw it out again. He was not going there.

Tucker's movements paused, then the pressure on the bed eased as he got off. Archer registered the rasp of a uniform zipper, and indeterminate sounds he couldn't place.

"Trip?"

"Just taking off my uniform. It was constricting me."

Constricting. Archer's mental image zoomed in on tented blue fabric stretched tight over Tucker's groin. He had to say something to mask what felt like panic. He had to act normal. This was all just—normal.

"Ah, sure, okay."

He could tell Tucker was still standing by the side of the bed. Not that he was going to look round at him to check just how much uniform he'd removed. What was he waiting for? Admiring the view?

"You got any oil or body cream or anything like that?" Tucker's voice was casual, relaxed.

"What?" A second nonintelligent response, but he couldn't manage anything better.

"Your skin's going to get a bit sore if I keep rubbing at it without any cream."

"Uh...no."

"Any lubricant, then?'

Archer felt his heart pound. Pressing his face into the sheets, he pretended relaxation.

"Second drawer down, beside the bed."

"Nice and handy." Archer could hear amusement in Tucker's voice. He pretended not to notice.

In the next second, the pressure was back on either side of his knees and he heard the squirting of lube from the tube. Next he heard squelching and sucking noises as Tucker warmed the lube between his hands, destroying any attempt at relaxation he had been making.

Tucker noticed it too, as soon as he set his now slick hands on Archer's back.

"Jeez, Jon, you're all tensed up. Looks like I need to work a little harder."

Oh god—that word. Archer had been in denial that his cock was hardening, but it was no good. Harder. The word shot straight to his groin. And the movements of Tucker's hands had changed. Lighter, feathery strokes now interspersed the pressure of massage. The pressure beside his knees shifted slightly and he felt the hairs on Tucker's legs graze against his thighs as Tucker leaned forward to press on his shoulders.

There was suddenly another point of contact. Fear clenched at his stomach, exploded in his brain, and for some reason stiffened his cock further. Through the fabric of his shorts, he'd unmistakably felt the tip of Tucker's erect cock trace up the cleft of his bum cheeks. And then down again, as Tucker's hands moved lower down his back. And unbelievably, the motion was repeated several times. Archer thought he was going to come right then, into the mattress. He was halfway through the periodic table of the elements in his mind when the motion stopped, and Tucker levered himself from his kneeling position to sit on th e side of the bed.

"All done. You can turn over now." Archer imagined a flatness in Tucker's voice. Perhaps it was just an echo of the strange desolation that was seeping through him.

"Ah...I don't think so, Trip."

There wasn't anything in Starfleet regulations that prevented a captain saying to one of his officers, "I can't turn over right now because I have a raging erection," but all the same, he wasn't going to say it.

"It's okay—I've got the same problem." Tucker's voice was serious.

The silence stretched, and Tucker didn't move. Archer raised himself on an elbow and looked round in spite of himself.

Tucker sat in his blue undershorts. The light glinted on his chest hairs, and Archer's gaze traced down to the waistband of his shorts. The fabric just under the waistband was a darker blue where the cap of Tucker's erect cock pressed up against the elastic. Damp fabric.

Archer felt complete unreality close over him. He was hurtled back to that strange desert place, on the edge of falling. The fear was breathtaking.

He had no idea how long he stayed like that, half twisted round, staring at Tucker's erection. From a great distance he heard Tucker say, "Guess that's it, then," and suddenly Tucker smiled that curiously tight smile and turned away to reach for his uniform.

"Turn around, Trip." Archer's voice was raw in his throat.

Tucker turned back to face him. He still had that strained, tight smile. Archer felt his stomach lurch, as if he had stepped from solid ground into nothingness.

"That sounds like an order, Cap'n."

"And if it was?"

Tucker's mouth quirked up at one corner in an expression so familiar to Archer that it took his breath away.

"Well," Tucker considered. "I guess by this time you know I'd do pretty much anything you asked. Even walk through a desert a second time."

He sat right round on the bed now. His erection still strained against the fabric of his underpants.

"And I thought you only came because I threatened to take Malcolm instead." Archer tried to smile, but somehow he couldn't. He was aware of a crazily gathering momentum. And he was going with it.

"You mean, like I was jealous?" Tucker should have sounded incredulous, but he didn't. It was a straight question.

"Yes. Like Malcolm was the one getting to spend some time with his captain."

"So would you have let Malcolm spent some more time with you—give you a massage?"

"Not like...this one. No." Archer felt the familiar thrill of fear course through him. Except now he recognised it for what it was. Excitement. Desire. Sheer wanting. Somehow, he'd crossed the boundary.

He had the curious feeling of watching himself as he raised a hand and traced a finger lightly down Tucker's face. The feel of the stubble connected instantly, electrically, with a memory—the rasp of stubble on Tucker's face as he'd helped him drink on their survival training. Archer trailed his finger lower, down Tucker's neck. The world around him had receded to the simple fact of reaching out to touch Tucker. Archer brought his finger to rest in the hollow of Tucker's collarbone. He felt the vein pulsing under the skin. The beat began to echo insistently in his bloodstream.

"Oh god, Trip," he whispered.

Tucker held his gaze for a long moment, then leaned in. In the second before his lips touched Archer's, Archer had the sudden awareness that this was the sweetest moment of all—on the edge, about to fall.

He was keyed to such a pitch that it was as if all his senses were set to delayed reaction. He felt Tucker's lips touch his, felt his hand come up to caress his face, tangle in his hair. Tucker's kiss deepened slightly, his tongue probing, connecting with Archer's tongue, then withdrawing. Tucker broke off the kiss slowly, slowly.

Then Tucker drew back and looked at him. The raw emotion of that look, of desire and lust and sweetness and knowledge of him all intermingled, burst on Archer, and he leaned towards Tucker again and found his mouth. The kiss ripened suddenly. He felt the heat and softness of Tucker's mouth, the shock of Tucker's probing tongue, his own desire igniting. His mouth felt invaded, and he wanted it again.

He felt as if he'd spoken his wanting out loud. It pervaded his mind, his whole body. Now he had to ask Tucker, just in case there was any last misunderstanding.

"What do you want?"

Archer had the crazy feeling that they were back on the desert planet, sheltering in the ruined building. He was going to ask Tucker the same question, over and over, and never get the answer he wanted. And then Tucker replied, and everything was different.

Tucker smiled again, and said very softly, "You." And then, "'I need to get out of these shorts before I'm strangled. You do the honours?"

The desert had vanished. Archer was suddenly drunk with relief. "Do you engineers always combine sweet talk with practicality?"

"This one does."

Archer lifted the elastic of the waistband up to hike it clear of Tucker's cock, then dragged the shorts down over his thighs. Tucker kicked them free, then reached to return the favour. He gave a low whistle.

"Jeez, Cap'n, you're big."

"C'mon Trip, you've seen all this before. In the heads. In the shower."

"Yeah, well, I tried not to stare. But you were never like this, though." Tucker traced his forefinger down Archer's cock. "I like this...I'm going to like this inside me."

Archer felt a shiver run through the core of him. He shivered again as Tucker pushed him down onto the bed, then bent and closed his mouth over his cock. The heat of Tucker's mouth burned in to him. Would this be what Tucker felt like inside? Hot and slick? Yes, but tighter. He felt his balls pulse. Tucker felt the pulse, and raised his head. He crawled back up Archer's body, his cock trailing wetness on Archer's stomach. He bent his head and let Archer taste himself. Archer had to fight for control at the thought of what he was doing. His fingers dug hard into Tucker's shoulders.

Tucker moved down again, stopping to nip and tease with his mouth at Archer's nipples. As he caught a few chest hairs and pulled back slowly, but hard, Archer drew a sharp breath at the thin, exquisite needle of pain. Tucker looked up at him. "Hmm, this is interesting. I think we need to investigate this pain/pleasure thing next time."

"Next time?"

"I'm sorry, Cap'n. I wanted to take it real slow this first time. But I can't last that long."

Archer sensed it too. Slow and tantalising would be for another time. Archer was overcome by the promise. Slow, sweet sex with Tucker, their pleasure drawn out thick and heavy, sex that was pleasure shot through with pain and the pain becoming pleasure, and the knowledge that Tucker had unlocked a dark sensuality in him; and the anticipation of sex with Tucker, building throughout the day beneath the normal persona of himself as the captain. When Tucker came to his quarters at night, he would slam him up against the wall and kiss the life out of his Chief Engineer, long and hard and deep.

Now everything was urgent. Tucker had picked up the tube of lubricant and was holding it out to him. "Put it on me." He was breathing hard. Archer looked at him.

"Aw hell, you're not havin' second thoughts?"

Archer drank in the glorious sight of Tucker, hand arrested in midcaress of his cock, strong thighs furred with golden hair, muscled chest breathing fast, and a look of pure anguish on his face.

"I can't wait either, Trip." Archer took the tube from Tucker and put it down on the bed. "I want to feel you without this first."

Tucker threw his head back and groaned as Archer stroked lightly up and down his cock. Archer was assailed by a surge of pleasure at the thought of causing Tucker that reaction. And right after that, a confused, heated jumble of impressions—so hard, so smooth, sliding skin—fusing into the overwhelming, hard pulse of desire.

He couldn't wait. He allowed Tucker to move him so that he knelt on the bed. He felt Tucker's hand on his bum cheeks, prising them apart. Then he felt Tucker's fingers applying lube to his asshole, sliding up and down his crack. His asshole clenched involuntarily. Tucker increased the pressure of his fingers, pushed harder, and slid in one finger. Then another. Archer moaned as Tucker worked his fingers. The sensation was unlike anything he'd felt before. Nothing in his experience with women had prepared him for having his body invaded for the first time. It was urgent, real. He wondered if he would last more than a few seconds once Tucker was inside him.

Tucker withdrew his fingers and Archer shuddered. The moment before Tucker positioned his cock at his asshole seemed to stretch. Archer wanted the moment to last, this feeling of waiting, anticipating, everything still to come. It seemed to be all he'd known with Tucker, and he was suddenly afraid of changing that.

Then time moved forward again, and it was all happening too quickly. He couldn't stretch out the moment. Tucker was pushing insistently with the cap of his cock against his asshole. The moment of entry took Archer by surprise. He hadn't thought he was ready. He felt a burning that was on the verge of pain. In his surprise, he let out a sharp huff of breath.

Tucker immediately halted. "Are you okay? Is that painful?"

"No, it's...I don't know. Just wait a minute." Archer was suddenly horribly aware of himself on his hands and knees, a Starfleet captain about to be fucked by one of his officers.

Tucker stroked his hands up and down Archer's back. "I can guarantee what you're feeling is nothing to what I'm going to feel when you're inside me."

"Talk to me, Trip. Tell me what I'm going to do."

"You want me to talk dirty?" Tucker's voice was warm, amused. "Okay then. First, because you're so big, you're going to have to prep me real good. Open me up with a serious finger-fuck. You're going to run your fingers round my asshole first."

Archer shivered as Tucker traced a finger over the stretched skin around his cock.

"You're going to slide in one finger, then another two, but it still won't be as big as your cock. And then when I'm all relaxed and ready...." Tucker was panting now. "You'll push in...with your cock...like this..." As he spoke, Tucker thrust in, slowly and deliberately, and Archer cried out. "And you'll be right inside me. All the way."

Tucker paused only for a second, then drew back and thrust again. Archer felt only exquisite sensation now, his and Tucker's. He was aware that he was shaking his head from side to side with the intensity of pleasure consuming his body and mind. He felt Tucker's pleasure mounting with his own. Tucker took Archer's right hand and placed it on his cock, ordering him, "Come with me. I want to feel you come."

Archer had only crazy, jumbled impressions through the haze of pleasure: the scent of Tucker's sweat, the sound of his own moaning, the thought, that next time, he wanted to see Tucker's face. Then Tucker's fingers dug into his hips and Archer felt him pulse deep inside him. Tucker's raw cry of ecstasy was blanked out as Archer's own orgasm slammed through him.

Archer lay listening to the blood surge in his ears, to heartbeats that felt as if they were shaking his whole body. Tucker was lying beside him, propped up on one elbow and observing him with a look of complete satisfaction on his face. Archer recognised that look: it went with being proved right about some fiendish engineering problem, or seeing his football team win the national championship.

Tucker grinned down at him. "You sure took your time about it."

"It all seemed fast to me."

"Yeah, that was fast. Slower next time, I promise. But otherwise, you're pretty dense sometimes for a Starfleet captain. I was beginning to think I'd never get there."

"You mean...you've been chasing me? I never guessed, Trip." As he spoke, Archer took stock of the fear that had assailed him, and of the desolation it brought. He caught hold of Tucker's hand and laid it on his stomach. He felt warmth, comfort, a tremor of arousal. No desert of fear.

"I thought...because I liked you..." Archer halted. He luxuriated for a long moment in the freedom of being able to scan Tucker's face. With a small thrill of delight he noticed a tiny scar on Tucker's forehead that he'd never seen before. He raised a finger to touch it.

Tucker smiled. "Chickenpox, when I was six. I couldn't stop scratching. Drove my mom crazy."

Archer took a breath. "I thought because I...love you..." He heard himself say it, and recognised it as something he'd always known. "And because I'm the captain," he pressed on.

Tucker stopped him with a slow trace of his thumb along Archer's full bottom lip.

"Shh. This is love too. And yeah, you're the captain—you make up the rules."

Archer remembered. "I think I did order you to turn around."

"And see what happened." Tucker finished for him. His hand was caressing Archer's jaw, stroking over an earlobe. "You've got to take the consequences of your orders."

"I can live with that," Archer said, and drew Tucker down towards him.


End file.
